


Unburdened and Becoming

by CloudAtlas



Series: A Safety In The End [10]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Everyone's thirsty for Steve, Fingerfucking, Lingerie, Moving In Together, Multi, POV Clint Barton, Past Clint Barton/Melinda May - Freeform, Playful Sex, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Clint, Natasha and James christen the bed.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: A Safety In The End [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/672662
Comments: 36
Kudos: 125
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	Unburdened and Becoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> First off: thank you to **Kangofu_CB** , **nightwideopen** , **squadrickchestopher** and **Alistra** for manifesting this fic straight into my fucking head one evening. Witchcraft, y'all.
> 
> This fic is for **Kangofu_CB** who bid on me in the Charity Hawktion 2020. They primarily asked for OT3 and banter, albeit in a slightly different context. I hope you enjoy this regardless. Also, I'm sorry this took so long to get to you.
> 
> Title from [8 (circle) by Bon Iver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPsBFPX_yU4). Beta'd by **inkvoices**. This takes place about a month-ish after One Day Like This.

“We should christen the bed.”

Clint groans from where he’s sprawled out on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, sounding amused. “Is Clint Barton turning down sex?”

“I have just,” Clint replies, “hauled an entire apartment’s worth of furniture up _six flights of stairs_ because the elevator is broken. I can _barely move_.”

Natasha hums. “You should probably talk to the super about that.”

Clint manages to raise his head to glare at her, but only just. “I will _end you_.”

Natasha laughs and rolls over on the bare mattress until she can peek over the edge, green eyes meeting Clint’s gaze.

The elevator broke yesterday – _after_ James and Steve had moved James’ eight million boxes of books, three million items of clothing, and an entire greenhouse full of houseplants, but barely _any_ furniture into the apartment, _of course_ – and despite Clint ringing _immediately_ to get it fixed, the earliest the technician said she could arrive is Monday. Which is _after_ Natasha was scheduled to arrive with such inconvenient items as tables and chairs and a _brand new fucking bed_. Clint could have fucking _cried_ when the technician had told him.

“I think this should be the sex room.” Natasha says and Clint groans again. He doesn’t want to _think_ right now, let alone carry on any kind of conversation with Natasha and her labyrinthine mind. “No, I’m serious. Sex room.”

“Uh-huh. Sex Room,” Clint repeats vaguely. Why does he live on the sixth floor again? A terrible decision on his part.

“James agrees with me. Right James?”

There’s a conspicuous silence and Clint cranes his head until he can locate James, collapsed into an antique looking wingback chair. He’s staring at the ceiling, clearly not aware of anything either Natasha or Clint are saying, eyes unfocused and sweat staining the collar of his grey t-shirt. In any other context, Clint would consider this a great look for him. In _this_ context, he’s honestly a little worried.

“Did we break him?” he asks Natasha.

Natasha wriggles down the bed until she can poke James’ thigh with an outstretched foot. “You with us?”

James blinks slowly. “Why the fuck,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “do you live on the sixth floor.”

His voice is so inflectionless it’s barely a question.

Clint snorts. “I was just asking myself the exact same thing.”

“Urgh,” Natasha says. “Babies.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see _you_ hauling the heavy oak bedframe up six flights of stairs,” Clint snarks.

“Pfft.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha wave a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t _just_ you. Steve helped. He’s worth at least three people.”

Clint’s eyes glaze over. _Oh_ yeah, Steve had indeed helped. Steve with his beard, and his James Dean white t-shirt, and his bulging biceps. _God_ , one man should not be allowed to be that fucking attractive. Surely it’s against the Geneva Conventions, or the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, or New York indecency laws, or _something_. Because it’s _obscene_. God, Clint would let that man fuck him into next week if he didn’t think Peggy would straight up kill him for it.

Well, not really. He’d never do that to James; that would be shitty. But _the point stands_.

“As soon as I have the energy,” Clint says, “I am jerking off to that man _so hard_.”

Both James and Natasha murmur in agreement and, fuck, Clint’s glad he’s not the only one. Perhaps it’s creepy but Jesus, lumberjack fantasies never looked so good. He even _smelled_ good. What the fuck?

“Right.” Natasha sits up. “I want at least one room set up before we order pizza.”

James lets out an explosive groan and, honestly, Clint is with him. He’s in good shape, he lifts beer barrels on the regular, but Natasha has _a lot of stuff_. Most of it, apparently, heavy. In fact, between the two of them, Natasha and James could probably open some bouji boutique they have so many clothes. Clint’s not complaining (much) because it does mean he gets to see them all dressed up, but… He wishes the elevator wasn’t broken.

“I bet it was your monstera,” Clint says after a while, attempting to send a glare in James’ direction but failing miserably on account of he doesn’t bother moving even slightly.

“You take that back,” James replies and, man, he must be tired because normally he’d manage much more ire at Clint badmouthing his plants. “Arabella is blameless in this situation. Your elevator is just shit.”

Well, he’s not wrong, but still, Clint is sceptical. Arabella is fucking enormous. He’s fairly sure it’s the single largest thing James has brought with him from Queens, which is ridiculous seeing as James is a fully adult man who should totally own furniture but _apparently doesn’t_. He didn’t even bring a bed and when Clint mentioned that to Steve, Steve gave him the most baleful look Clint’s ever seen a handsome man wear.

“Clint,” Steve had said, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder _._ “Bucky slept on a mattress on the floor.”

Fucking hell. No wonder James never let them visit his place in Queens. He was apparently living the fucking student bedsit lifestyle despite having a six figure salary. It makes Clint feel both like _an actual adult_ and like he’s saving James from something. He’s probably not; James is fully capable of making his own choices and if he wants to sleep on a mattress on the floor he’s damn well allowed to, but _still._

“Boys,” Natasha says. “Unpacking?”

James sighs. “You’re one of those people who can’t live out of boxes, aren’t you?”

“If by that you mean I am an adult, then yes. Yes, I am.”

James sighs again, but Clint sees him lever himself upright regardless.

“Pizza first?” Clint asks plaintively.

“No.” Natasha gets off the bed, kicking him in the thigh as she walks past. “Kitchen first, then pizza.”

It had taken them a little while to work out the logistics; the basics of what is going where wasn’t immediately apparent as they’re basically going to be living out of an entire floor consisting of two apartments, rather than just one central space like regular people.

Danny’s old place, it’s been decided, will be mostly used for when Natasha or James work from home, something Natasha is lobbying SHIELD for more of considering her commute has just gotten far longer and more annoying. So the front room is going to be set up more like an office, with space for both of their work stuff as well as Clint’s couch. _Natasha’s_ couch is going into the main apartment, because it’s both bigger and far more comfortable – unsurprising really, seeing as Clint rescued his from the side of the road – as well as all of Natasha’s fancy cookware that she barely uses. Clint’s fairly sure the kitchen on this side is going to end up looking like a corporate breakroom; full of unwashed coffee mugs and forgotten biscuits. As long as he doesn’t have to tidy it up, he doesn’t care.

Most of Natasha and James’ professional wardrobes are also going to be on this side – and all of their fancy stuff, which is a lot – because Clint has never cared much about clothes so never prioritised decent wardrobe space. Also, at some point Danny had installed an insane built-in wardrobe in the master bedroom, which Natasha had actually gotten a little misty eyed over when she’d first seen it. James and Natasha’s books – their _library_ , really, because apparently Clint fell for _readers_ – will be in the main apartment. Not yet – they’re going to be in boxes for a while – but Natasha had fixed Clint with a very direct look one day and had said, “I want built-in shelves and a library ladder,” and… that was that. So the giant floor-to-ceiling wall in Clint’s front room which has been blank for years and is, according to Kate, ‘super depressing’ is going to get massive shelves built into it.

Natasha’s also getting some fancy wardrobe built in the spare room of Danny’s old place too. Natasha, it transpires, has been thinking about this _for ages_. Clint wasn’t even aware she’d ever been _into_ Danny’s place before he’d left, but apparently she’d sweet talked him into a tour two weeks after they’d made their pact last June. Danny had barely moved out before she’s been presenting Clint with a list of exactly what changes she wanted to make.

Clint had agreed to everything. It was easier that way.

But this was new.

“It definitely should be the sex room,” Natasha says as she organises mugs in a cupboard.

“Are we planning on a better name or – ?”

“Please be careful with that James. It’s antique.”

‘It’ is a very fancy set of china that Clint’s honestly even surprised Natasha owns.

Clint eyes it in confusion. “What the hell?”

“I inherited it from my parents.”

“Oh.” Clint watches as James carefully places the plate he was holding on the countertop. “Where do you want it then?”

Natasha hums and casts her gaze over the cupboards. “That one,” she says, pointing.

“Are we going to become the type of people who have dinner parties?” Clint asks as he unpacks two boxes of wine glasses and slides them into the cupboard Natasha indicated. Natasha makes a frustrated noise and points at a different cupboard. Clint dutifully moves the glasses.

“I like hosting dinner parties.”

Clint raises a sceptical eyebrow, smirking. “Have you ever actually hosted one?”

“I _can_ cook, you know,” Natasha says, throwing a tea towel at him. “I have dinner parties with Maria and Yelena and Sharon.”

He knows this, but he loves ribbing Natasha for what he calls her Girls Nights. He’s not sure why, but they seem so unlikely for Natasha, which is ridiculous really because Natasha’s a great friend and probably a great host.

“Well, _I’ve_ never been invited,” Clint counters, all false indignation. “I call bullshit.”

“ _You’re_ not fancy enough,” Natasha replies, collapsing yet another box and moving on to the next one. “But now you have James to elevate your image, so I think we can attempt it.”

“I do look good in formalwear,” James says mildly from where he’s carefully stacking Natasha’s fancy parental dinner set in the correct cupboard.

“Mm.” Natasha pauses in her unpacking to run a hand through James’ hair. “That you do, kitten. But you’re side-tracking me,” she continues, returning to what looks like a complete set of ramen bowls and their accoutrements. “Sex room.”

“It just sounds so _skeevy_.”

“If you can’t say it, kitten, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“Fine.” James shuts the cupboard and turns to her. “Sex room how? Like a dungeon? D’you have a St Andrew’s Cross we don’t know about packed in a box somewhere?”

Clint pulls a face at the thought. Urgh, that sounds awful.

“Jesus, no,” Natasha says with a laugh. “Don’t pull that face, Barton. Just…” She turns and leans against the counter with her arms crossed across her chest, looking down at where James is squatting by the cupboards and Clint is drowning in packaging. She doesn’t look defensive or even unsure, but there’s _something_. “More like, we’re probably still mostly going to sleep in Clint’s bed, right? That’s going to be _our room_.” Oh wow, Clint thinks. That sounds _good_. _“_ It’s plenty big enough for three and it’s far enough from ‘the office’” – she curls her fingers around the words to show she means the front room here and not anything else – “to not feel like we’re shitting where we sleep and – ”

“The windows are nice,” James cuts in.

“Yeah, that too. But more of my clothes will move in there, and more of yours, and we’ve… expanded our – ” She pauses and then smirks. “Our _bedroom repertoire_ enough that sometimes it can be an _event_ almost.”

“You make it sound like we should be charging admission,” Clint says, grinning.

“Hell, I’d pay,” James replies with a laugh. “I’d pay whatever you wanted.”

“I’m not talking about _paying_ , Jesus Christ.” Natasha throws up her hands in exasperation, but she’s grinning so it’s fine. “I’m just _saying_ that we have enough toys now to need more space and I deliberately bought an oak bedframe so we can more easily _tie James to it._ ”

There’s a ringing silence. Clint quickly cuts his gaze to James in time to see desire crawl across his face; blush red cheeks and ink black pupil. It’s beautiful. He’s a beautiful, beautiful man and Clint needs to kiss him right the fuck now. He slides across the tiles, pushing packaging out of the way uncaring of where it ends up, and hooks an arm around James’ neck, biting his bottom lip before going in for what he hopes is a toe-curling kiss.

“Okay, yeah,” he says roughly after a moment, straight into James’ panting mouth. “Yeah, I can go for that.”

James chases his mouth as he pulls away and, really, Clint has no willpower against that sort of thing. His kisses James again, pressing him against the cupboards, hands fisted in James’ hair. It’s awkward and they slide on bubble wrap, brown paper crinkling beneath eager hands, but they don’t come up for air until Natasha coughs pointedly.

“I’m glad you’ve finally come around, boys,” she says, picking her way through the detritus until she can crouch down to press lush kisses to swollen lips. “But first: unpacking.”

Both Clint and James groan.

Clint flails awake just before midday. They’d stayed up until everything was unpacked, which means they’d stayed up until _five in the morning_. The only things still in boxes now are all the books, and the clothes and bedding that’s destined for the wardrobe Natasha’s planning for the spare room.

Everywhere aches. No one ever warns you that unpacking is _exhausting as fuck_.

Nevertheless, he wriggles out of Natasha’s octopus hold and slides off the bed. He’d swapped his days off – today for yesterday – so, despite the fact that his arms feel like wet noodles and he’s still basically half asleep, he shuffles around the room until he’s unearthed enough clean items of clothing to pass as respectable work-wear.

He hooks his hearing aids in and takes a moment to just get used to the sounds of the apartment again. God, he needs coffee. So much coffee.

“The fuck are you going?”

Natasha’s words are so muffled by pillow that Clint almost misses them. Almost, but not quite.

“Work,” he grunts out, scratching his ass and yawning. “Swapped, remember?”

“Mel gave you yesterday off.”

Clint can just see Natasha’s frown, almost buried under a riot of unwashed hair.

“ _Swapped_ ,” Clint insists, deciding to ignore the fact that Mel didn’t _give_ him anything. _He’s_ the boss, not Mel.

“ _No_.” Vehemence makes Natasha’s voice clearer, more distinct. “Extra.” She’s apparently loud enough to wake James, who grumbles from under the pile of blankets he’s amassed. As far as Clint can work out, his face must be pressed against the small of Natasha’s back. James sleeps super weirdly sometimes.

“No,” Clint says patiently as he grabs a pair of socks, “swapped.”

“Sh’t _up_ ,” grumbles the pile-of-blankets-that-is-James. “ _Tired_.”

“Tell Clint he’s off work today,” Natasha demands, ignoring James’ entreaties.

More grumbling from James. Clint pulls his socks on while trying to remember if his shoes should be here or by the door. He’s _fairly_ sure they should be here, but he also remembers assembling a shoe rack, of all fucking things, at some godawful time in the morning and leaving it next to Arabella in the stairwell-that-is-now-a… porch? Landing? Clint doesn’t fucking know. In the stairwell.

“Back.” James’ voice pulls him from his musings and Clint turns to find that he’s un-buried himself from the blanket nest and is now scowling at him, hair an astonishing mess. “Off work. Sleeping.”

James is a grumpy fuck when he’s tired and Clint loves it.

“Uh-huh.” He can’t see his shoes here so maybe he didn’t hallucinate the shoe rack. “You continue sleeping. I’m goin’ to work. See you later.”

The last thing he hears is Natasha muttering, “ _Typical_ ,” before grunting as, Clint assumes, James lies down directly on top of her, probably to trap her by falling straight back asleep.

He makes himself a coffee. He contemplates showering for two seconds and then decides he’s too lazy. He finds his sneakers in the definitely-not-a-hallucination shoe rack next to Arabella in the stairwell. There’s an awful lot of plants here now. He hopes James isn’t expecting him to help with upkeep; Clint tends to kill plants.

He heads downstairs.

On the way he checks in on Old Mrs DiLeo, to make sure the elevator being out all weekend won’t inconvenience her too much and to ask if there’s anything he can do for her. He doesn’t think there will be, because Steve insisted on getting her groceries yesterday to tide her over, but he checks all the same.

Old Mrs DiLeo is making cookies.

“That young man was ever so helpful, getting my milk like that, so I thought I’d make something nice to say thank you.” She holds out a plate of cookies to Clint with gnarled hands. Everything is covered in flour and the entire apartment smells of ginger. “Snickerdoodles,” she says. “Would you deliver them for me? Any time this weekend is fine. They keep well.”

“I think I can do that, Mrs DiLeo. Anything else?”

“ _Well_.” Mrs DiLeo gives him a mischievous look. “If that young man wouldn’t mind coming and helping me move that old thing” – she gestures to a random bookshelf, not taking her eyes from Clint’s face – “I would be _very_ appreciative.”

“ _Claudia_ ,” Clint replies, all exaggerated offence. “Are you saying I’m not _good enough_ for you anymore? Have I been _replaced_?”

“You are still very handsome, don’t you worry,” Mrs DiLeo assures him. “But that young man.” She fans herself, giving him a devilish grin that shows off her stained teeth. “Oh, if I were twenty years younger.”

Clint barks out a laugh. Twenty years ago Mrs DiLeo would still have been in her sixties. The woman is an unashamed cougar and Clint adores her.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs DiLeo, but he’s married.”

“Pshaw.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I could take her.”

Clint pictures Peggy Carter with her flawless makeup and knife-sharp smirk. “I’m not sure you could, to be honest.”

Mrs DiLeo gives him an appraising look. “A firecracker, eh?” She nods like she approves. “Good, a man like that needs a firm hand.”

Clint can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him then. This is _gold._ He’s trying to picture Steve’s face if he were ever to learn just what Old Mrs DiLeo thinks of him and the mental image is just too good. He’d be both scandalised and flattered, and Peggy would be _thrilled_. Clint hopes he’s this awesome when he’s eighty.

“You’re one of these modern types, aren’t you Clint? You have that boy of yours, the pretty one.” Mrs DiLeo fixes him with a gimlet eye. “You understand.”

“Oh, Claudia.” Clint gives her hand a squeeze and presses a kiss to her wrinkled cheek. “I promise you that you and I are in _complete_ agreement regarding Steve Rogers.”

“Good.” Mrs DiLeo grins at him and nods in approval. “You’re a man of taste. Now, remember the snickerdoodles for the nice young man. And I want to meet this wife of his. See if she passes muster.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs DiLeo. Ciao.”

Luke opened up today and, apart from one rather lost looking business-type tapping away on his laptop in the corner, he’s the only one in the bar when Clint arrives.

“Today’s your day off,” Luke tells him in his customary rumble. “Why are you here?”

“Swapped with yesterday, so we could move Natasha in.”

Luke gives him a very sceptical eyebrow but doesn’t say anything and, for a split second, Clint thinks this is going to be completely fine until –

“Is that Barton?”

Clint gives Luke a flat stare. “Why the hell is Mel in?”

“I’m _in_ ,” Mel says, emerging from the office to lean – _far too judgementally,_ Clint thinks – against the doorjamb, “because you asked me to do month end – ”

“ _At the end of the month_.”

“ – and,” she continues, barrelling over Clint, “because I knew you would _wilfully misunderstand me_ when I told you to take yesterday off _as well_.”

There’s a beat of silence. Luke is looking _far_ too smug, in Clint’s opinion, with his hands on his hips to show off his frankly alarming pecs, while Mel’s expression is incredibly pointed. Clint searches for a distraction. There’s a woman approaching the bar, the kind who probably only wants a glass of coke and a chance to use the toilet. Excellent.

“I think you’ll find,” Clint says, reaching to rummage under the bar until he finds a spare apron and tying it around his waist, “that this is my bar, not yours. You can’t tell me to do anything.” He turns to the woman. “Hey, what can I get for – ”

“Excuse me,” Luke’s voice rolls over them like wave. “Do you mind holding on for a moment? We have to yell at our boss.”

The woman nods, looking a little unsure, and Clint’s just about to berate Luke for his _highly unprofessional behaviour_ when Luke wraps one enormous paw around his bicep and steers him into the back room, where Mel is now waiting for him with her arms folded across her chest.

“Go home, Clint,” she says before Clint can say anything. “It’s your weekend off. We’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think you won’t!” Clint protests, because he doesn’t. He knows the rota: it’s Luke on open and Luis on close, with Miles in at one, Gwen and Ramone in at five, and Noah in at half six. It’s a good, dependable Saturday shift like it always is; Clint only hires good people.

Mel narrows her eyes at him before her gaze skips over to where Luke is undoubtedly standing behind him. She jerks her head – the universal _leave us_ gesture – and there’s a pause before the door swings shut.

Okay, this is getting really weird.

“I get it,” Mel says after the silence has stretched _just_ long enough to be mildly uncomfortable. “You’ve done the normal thing. But it’s okay.” A pause and a significant look. “You’re okay, Clint.”

“I know,” Clint replies, but he’s unsure now. Mel has this way of looking at you like she knows all your secrets. And, to be fair, she probably does. She’s like that. Clint’s just not sure what secret she’s on about right _now_.

“Why are you here?” she asks, head tilted slightly to one side and eyes unfathomable.

“I swapped my days off. Today for yesterday.”

“No,” Mel says. “Today _and_ yesterday. And tomorrow. You know this. You’re not dumb.”

Clint doesn’t say anything. He’s not quite sure why this is a big deal.

Mel sighs. “It’s always been okay to want this,” she says, moving to stand in front of him.

Like every single time this happens, Clint’s surprised he has to look down at her. He always feels like Mel takes up so much _room_ , but in reality she’s only a couple of inches taller than Natasha. She smiles at him and reaches up, resting her hands on his shoulders before slowly, slowly stroking her palms down his arms until they’re holding hands. It would be weird, apart from _it’s Mel_. She grins at him.

“It’s okay,” she says again, squeezing his hands. “You’ve got it. It’s happened. You’ve found two people who like you enough for just being _you_ that they wanted to live with you. Don’t run away from them.”

Clint feels like he’s just been dumped in a cold shower, cold trickles of realisation running down his spine, chilling his skin, soaking into him.

See, before James, and Sam, and even before Natasha, when it was just Clint and Kate living it up in Brooklyn, Clint hired an ex-policewoman called Melinda May to work in Slings & Arrows. Melinda May was a single mother, recently divorced, and had minor PTSD from a shitty experience in the force. She wanted a job that was relatively simple to do and different enough from policing to ease her back into civilian life.

But it also turned out that she missed sex. A lot. And Clint? Clint is good at sex.

Realistically speaking, Clint’s friends with benefits relationship with Mel has been the longest sexual relationship of his life. Which is fine, apart from Mel is very good at the types of silences that have you spilling your guts in the post coital glow of good orgasms and illicit cigarettes – Clint has never really smoked, but sex with Melinda May feels wrong without a shared smoke at the end – and _that_ means that Clint has perhaps told Melinda May more about his insecurities about life and work and relationships than possibly any other person. Ever.

“Oh,” Clint says.

“Yeah,” Mel says with a small smile. “ _Oh_.”

“I’m being a dumbass, aren’t I?” Clint asks.

“You’re being,” Mel concedes, “a _tiny_ bit of a dumbass, yes. But they know you, Clint. It’ll be fine.”

Their arrangement had stopped with about two years ago when Mel met a second generation Vietnamese American researcher from Colorado through, hilariously, her mother. Only five years younger than her (as opposed to Clint’s twenty), he listened to her, respected her boundaries, and got on spectacularly well with Xia, her daughter.

They’re married now. Clint went to the wedding. It was lovely.

Clint huffs out a laugh. “Eugene is a lucky guy,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Damn right he is,” Mel says, but her smile belies her tone.

“And you’ll go home after this? Month end isn’t until next week.”

“I’ll go if you do.”

Clint unties his apron, screwing it up in a ball and showing it onto the table behind Mel. “Yeah, yeah. I’m going.” He gives her another kiss, this time on the cheek. “You’re a queen among women, Mel.”

She flaps her hand at him, shooing him out of the room. “Save the flattery for people who care, Barton,” she grouses, but there’s a faint blush staining her cheeks and her eyes glitter with pleasure.

“Seriously though, Mel,” he says, one hand on the doorjamb. “Thank you.”

Natasha is curled up on the couch when Clint gets in, wrapped in some silky, wine red robe Clint’s never seen before. It’s edged in black lace. It’s stupidly hot.

“That took longer than I expected,” is the first thing she says, which: _rude_. But fair, probably.

“I went to check on Old Mrs DiLeo first,” Clint says, toeing off his shoes at the door. Now that there’s the shoe rack he should probably move them, but he’s not gonna. “Sorry I’m an idiot.” He wanders over to press a kiss against her lips, tasting lipstick. “Are you wearing make-up?”

Natasha hums. “It’s okay,” she replies, giving him a small smile that conveys _I expected it and have already forgiven you_ louder than any words could. “And yes, I am.”

“ _Why_?”

It’s Saturday. Saturday is not a make-up day. Clint knows this.

“Why not?”

Clint squints at her suspiciously. Natasha never does anything without reason.

“James is in the shower,” she says, dodging the implied question. She’s wearing a little smirk, but it’s fighting a losing battle with the outright grin Natasha clearly _wants_ to be wearing. “I told him to be _thorough_.”

Clint squints harder despite the thrill that bolts down his spine. This is… Okay, he’s fairly sure he knows where this is going.

“Clint,” she says, enunciating carefully. “We’re christening the bed.”

Even though he’d guessed, the words falling from between her painted lips still make him hot. But it doesn’t do to let Natasha hold _all_ the cards, so he maintains the pretence, rolling his eyes despite biting down on a wild grin. “Oh, are we?”

“Yes,” Natasha says, standing and shedding her robe. “We are.”

Fuck.

Natasha likes dressing up. She’s always liked dressing up, she and James have that in common, and Clint thought he knew all of her myriad lingerie and fetish outfits but he’s never seen _this_ before, holy shit.

It’s a bodysuit, a little like a one piece swimsuit, but it’s like the material got lost. It’s just the outlines, the seams, stark black against Natasha’s pale skin with only a slightly wider bar to cover her nipples. _Holy shit_. Clint’s not sure he’s ever seen anything like it in his life and he’s so hard he’s not sure his brain even knows what blood _is_ any more.

“Okay,” he breathes out, hands outstretched. “Okay, yeah. We’re christening the bed.”

Natasha lets out a delighted laugh, dodging his grip and dancing out of his way on – fucking hell; on _evil looking black platform heels_. How did he not notice she was taller?

“James!” she calls, bright and delighted. “We’re christening the bed!”

There’s a thump and the slide of the lock and James’ wet head pops round the doorframe of the downstairs bathroom. “Right now? ‘Cause I – ” The words die on his lips the moment he clocks Natasha’s outfit, his eyes going saucer-wide. “Oh _shit_ ,” he says breathlessly. “Yes, okay.”

He ducks back into the bathroom but emerges almost immediately, completely nude and rubbing a towel hastily over his wet hair. Oh god, Clint’s partners are so fucking attractive. He’s not sure what he wants to do more: suck James’ dick until he’s crying or suck bruises on the underside of Natasha’s breasts between the faux leather straps of her bodysuit.

Both, really. Both would be the fucking _ideal_.

Natasha shoots Clint a bright grin and takes his hand, tugging him across the front room and towards the door. Even from the back the bodysuit is magnificent. Would Natasha let him eat her out while wearing it maybe? Oh god, he’d love to do that. It looks like the bottom half is actually made of some extremely sheer skin-coloured material, probably to help the thing its keep shape, and Clint can fucking _imagine_ it; the smell of warm skin and arousal, the dampening of the material against his tongue. He speeds up until he can press his burgeoning erection against Natasha’s back, his hand skimming across her stomach and up to her breasts. She’s so _warm_.

A little mortified _eep!_ from James pulls Clint out of his downward lust-spiral and both he and Natasha turn to find a hectic blush crawling its way up James’ face.

He’s clearly just realised he’s standing in the stairwell – basically in _public_ , though not really because now that Danny’s gone, no one else will be coming up here – rubbing a towel over his head with his dick out.

“Oh no you don’t,” Natasha all but growls, darting out from Clint’s grip to snatch the towel from James’ hands before he can wrap it around his waist, “Don’t you dare deprive us of this view.” She grabs his hand and tugs, and James stumbles along behind her, tripping over his feet and all but falling through the door to the other apartment.

Clint catches him. Clint catches him and slams him into the wall, kissing him hungrily and palming his dick and causing James to moan so loud it’s a good job they don’t have neighbours anymore.

“Move it.” Natasha shoves at them until she has room to shut the door. “We have a bed to christen. Chop chop.”

But then she rakes her nails down Clint’s back, so it’s not really his fault that they don’t get far.

“The fuck are you still wearing clothes for,” she mutters, tugging at his t-shirt. Perhaps it’s a half-hearted attempt to get him moving, Clint’s not sure, but he’s too busy kissing James to help her undress him. She tugs again and there’s the sound of popping stitches, which makes her growl in frustration and snap out a, “Fucking _help me_ , asshole,” that barely pierces Clint’s fogged consciousness until James fists a hand into the material above his heart and _pulls_.

The entire shirt rips under the arms and across the back from the strain.

Clint pulls back, blinking stupidly at James’ lust blown eyes. “Uh.”

“Oh shit, that’s hot,” Natasha breathes out, running her hands across his side, the sensation of her hand moving from ripped material to skin making Clint’s dick throb in the confines of his jeans. He whines, head dropping to James’ shoulder as desire slams through him, then whines again when James spreads a palm against Clint’s chest and _pushes_ , forcing him to stumble backwards just far enough to take in the view; James spread out naked against the wall, hard and leaking and looking incredibly pleased with himself. Clint tries to reach out, to curl his hands around James’ waist again or put his mouth to his chest, but James stops him with an outstretched finger tracing what turns out to be a hole in Clint’s t-shirt, near his collar. Then he smirks, hooks his finger through the hole, and _pulls_.

This time, the t-shirt rips down the front, revealing Clint’s chest and one tight nipple.

There’s a loaded silence. Then –

“ _Bedroom_ ,” Natasha growls, grabbing Clint by the beltloops and dragging him down the corridor.

They crash through the bedroom door, James hot on their heels, and Clint only has a moment to clock that Natasha has apparently prepared the room in advance before he topples onto the bed, legs splayed. Natasha is on him immediately, perching on his lap almost crotch to crotch as she yanks at the zipper of his jeans with rough, eager fingers. Clint groans as pressure is released, his dick staining his grey cotton boxer briefs, but the noise is almost immediately swallowed by James’ mouth. James, who kisses like he’s starving for it. James, whose hands comes up to cradle Clint’s neck, tilting his head back with his thumbs against Clint’s jaw until he’s straining, panting and whining into James’ mouth as Natasha clambers off his lap to strip him of his jeans and boxers.

“Up,” Natasha mutters, pushing at Clint’s knees until he gets the hint, James relinquishing his mouth and moving down his body as Clint shuffles up the bed.

Clint looks down himself. He takes in James biting at his pecs before settling on Natasha, now crouching above him, eyes dark and huge and hungry. He’s not sure what she’s doing – if she’s arching her back, or doing something with her arms or if it’s just the bodysuit – but her tits look so huge and plush, straining against the faux leather, that Clint fucking _feels_ his dick twitch.

He fucking loves tits, okay?

“C’mere,” he says, slightly taken aback by how rough his voice is. He pulls himself up, dislodging James as he reaches to wrap one arm around Natasha’s waist and haul her up to settle heavily in his lap, his eager dick slipping against skin and faux leather. _Christ_ , it feels good. He can’t help but thrust into the feeling, into _her_ , groaning at the straps scraping across his shaft and balls. Natasha lets out a throaty laugh before sinking one hand into his hair and kissing him so filthy and deep Clint gets lightheaded for want of air.

“Fuck.” James’ voice is strained and high, and from that alone Clint can tell he’s close. He’s lying right next to them – Clint can feel the heat of him against his thigh – and probably jerking himself off with rough hands. Oh god, he wants to see. But –

“No,” Natasha growls, tearing herself away from Clint’s kiss. She leans over, putting her tits _right in Clint’s face_ , and takes James’ wrist in her hand. And Clint was right, he _was_ jerking off. His cock is an angry red, leaking all over his stomach, and Clint wants it in his mouth _so bad_ apart from James is _far_ and Natasha is _right here_ and –

He growls, buries his face in Natasha’s magnificent cleavage, and _bites_.

Natasha keens, high and beautiful, and Clint tightens his arms around her waist, rolling them until she’s spread out across the mattress with her red hair a halo on the pillow. She’s so beautiful and he’s so lucky; lucky that she wants him, lucky that she sticks around, lucky that she trusts him with her body and her mind and her heart. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

“Is this something I can ruin or not?” he asks, settling across her hips and plucking at the strap that runs directly over her breasts. It’s only then that he remembers that he has a ripped t-shirt fluttering around his neck. “Oh shit, I – ” He pulls at the collar, hoping it will just rip off, but only succeeds in lightly choking himself and making both James and Natasha laugh.

“C’mere, idiot,” James says, his fond tone at odds with the franticness of the past few minutes, “just – ”

He pulls at something, rips at something else, and then pulls the collar of the t-shirt – the only bit still intact – over Clint’s head, freeing him at last.

“Okay good,” he says as James leans against his side. Clint returns his gaze to where Natasha is prone beneath him. “Two down, one to go.”

Clint traces his finger up the centre of her body, watching as her stomach muscles jump and shiver at the sensation, until he hits the material connecting the underwiring of her bra cups. He slips one finger underneath it and pulls gently.

“Yes?” he says, as her breasts jiggle. He pulls again, harder this time, and is rewarded with another, even more enticing, jiggle. “No?”

“No,” Natasha says before gasping as James palms her right breast roughly, pulling it free of its admittedly flimsy confines. “It should – _oh god_.” Her back arches and on her lap Clint shifts to keep his balance, pressing his dick against her centre. “It should survive reasonably – _fuck_ – rough handling, but don’t – ”

“Let James rip this one too?”

Natasha laughs, then moans when James pinches her nipple in retaliation.

Clint can’t list the ways their sex life has improved since Halloween. There are just too many ways. They’re more open, more willing to listen, and more willing to try things. And, considering who they are, that’s saying something, because they were pretty damn willing before. Clint’s learnt dozens of new kinks he’s into, including that bondage – at least within certain boundaries – is totally a thing for him and that James in subspace is the single hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. Each of them has learnt that the roles they’d inadvertently assigned each other are more fluid than they’d first thought; Natasha can surrender control, Clint can enjoy rough(er) play, James can take charge. They like lingerie and novelty dildos and the kinds of bruises made by mouths and fingers. They like dirty talk and egging each other on and laughing while fucking. They like humming Earth, Wind & Fire while going down on each other.

Okay, James and Clint like doing that. Natasha finds it _really annoying_ , which of course means they do it even more.

But if Clint _had to_ pick one thing – just one thing – as the very best way their sex life has improved since Halloween, it would be this: Natasha and James might be able to talk Russian together and Clint and Natasha may still have the edge on James when it comes to ASL, but nothing quite beats the fucking telepathic bond James and Clint have developed to aid in the noble purpose of _wrecking Natasha Romanov._

“Mm.” Clint wraps his left hand around James’ where it’s currently torturing Natasha’s tits. “I have an idea.”

He turns, cupping his free right hand around James’ jaw and guiding him around until they’re only a breath apart. He can feel the slight strain in James’ neck, the hot spill of his breath against Clint’s lips, and the race of his pulse in his carotid. James’ pupils are so blown there’s barely any blue, just these inky pools Clint’s could drown in – and, wow, that’s a thought worthy of a romance novel, but it’s _true_. Clint could lose himself in the lust reflected back at him from James’ gaze. It’s addictive.

Clint licks into James mouth, biting at his lips until he keens and then pulling away, holding his gaze until he _gets it_ ; what Clint’s planning, what Clint wants him to do.

James grins, and Clint knows he’s been understood.

“It’s fucking creepy when you do that,” Natasha cuts in, her tone arch despite the breathiness of her voice. “Just so you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint pants, grinding one last time against her centre before climbing off her lap, so he and James are bracketing her body. His arousal is persistent, but he can ignore it for now. This is better anyway.

He takes her in, spread out as she is between them.

“God,” he mutters, trailing gentle fingers up the path of one of the bodysuit straps. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

James follows the same path with his tongue and Natasha arches as first Clint, then James, circle her nipples. Both her breasts are now free of the cups of the bodysuit, the straps distorted around their weight, and Clint could do something about that, he supposes, but he doesn’t. Instead he gets to work kissing and sucking at all of Natasha’s exposed skin, James mirroring his movements on her other side, until she’s panting, her skin so sensitised that the barest hint of a touch has her twitching under their palms. It’s beautiful, it’s addictive, and it’s winding Natasha up something fierce.

“Bastards,” she spits, as Clint and James take a hand each and pin them to the mattress. And –

“ _Assholes_ ,” she moans, as James breathes heavily over her cunt without touching. And –

“Fucking touch me, you goddamn _teases_ ,” when Clint kisses his way down her legs to find – oh yeah, she’s still wearing those evil looking black platform heels. Those must be heavy.

Clint takes them off, gently removing each one with a kiss to Natasha’s ankles, while James keeps her wrists immobile in one strong hand. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright, and she looks like she’d liked to be furious but can’t quite manage it through how turned on she is.

It’s a good fucking look.

Clint catches James’ eye and James smirks back. Time to ramp it up.

They only give Natasha the briefest second to register that her hands are free before James is plunging two spit slick fingers into her cunt, making her back bow so hard Clint’s honestly surprised she doesn’t hurt herself. She glistens with sweat and the bodysuit is now so distorted around her that she looks like she’s caught in a black spider’s web; the straps have slid down her shoulders, the bra cups are caught around her ribs, and all the straps at her crotch have been pushed aside to make way for James’ eager fingers.

She’s practically keening, loud and constant, at least until James stops the sounds with his tongue, and for a moment Clint just takes in the sight: his lovers tangled on their bed, Natasha incoherent and James leaking all over cotton sheets, completely oblivious to his own pleasure in light of pursuing hers.

She’s close, Clint can tell. So in an effort to help her along, he fits his mouth to her cunt, James kindly making room, and manages to get five notes into Earth, Wind & Fire’s _September_ before Natasha lets out an incoherent sound of rage and pulls him off her with a hand fisted in his hair.

Both Clint and James collapse into laughter.

“You guys are such fucking _jerks_ ,” she snarls, eyes bright was arousal and annoyance. “I was _so_ _fucking_ _close_.”

“Oh my god,” James manages, smothering his laughter in her shoulder, “ _Clint_. What the _fuck_.”

“I hate you,” Natasha continues before Clint can say anything.

She flops back onto the mattress and Clint catches James’ eye, grinning. He raises an eyebrow and James nods, biting down on his grin. Good, they’re on the same page again.

“If you’re gonna be like that I’m just gonna – _oh!_ ”

Natasha’s tirade cuts off with a groan as Clint ducks down again, moving her bodysuit out of the way once more to lick a broad stripe up her cunt with the flat of his tongue and sucking _hard_ when he reaches her clit _._ Christ, she tastes good, warm and earthy and _her_. He keeps going until Natasha’s panting, then moves to kiss up her stomach as James’ hooks his fingers back inside her, using three this time – she’s wet enough – and hitting her g-spot on the second pass.

She cries out and James doubles down, mercilessly finger-fucking her until she clamps her thighs hard around his hand and comes with a throaty moan.

Clint licks James’ hand clean before ducking down to lap at Natasha. _God_ , he could do this forever.

“I am banning,” Natasha pants after a moment, as she pushes at Clint’s head until he moves away, “Earth, Wind & Fire from the bedroom.”

Both Clint and James ignore her. She’s tried this at least three times before but it’s not stuck yet. Instead, they kiss their way up her body before gently easing her upright and peeling her out of her bodysuit. True to their promise it’s not _ruined_ , but it could definitely do with a wash.

Natasha flops back down onto the mattress, pushing messy hair from her face with a slightly glazed look. There are red marks on her torso, places where the meagre material of her bodysuit dug in; under her breasts, over her left hip, in the crease of her thighs. Clint licks at them, sucking bruises on bruises until Natasha pushes him away again.

“No, no, I’m done,” she pants. “This is me tapping out.” She taps the mattress twice for emphasis. “Go stick your dick in James instead, he’s ready for you.”

Sometimes sleeping with James and Natasha is like the hottest, most decadent fantasy Clint can imagine. The kind where even thinking about cracking a joke feels somehow sacrilegious, like they’re sullying the divine.

And sometimes it’s like a porn parody of a buddy cop movie.

James snorts with laughter and rolls into his back, hiking his legs up and smacking his ass. “Yeah, Barton,” he says with a grin. “The back door is open, what are you waiting for?”

This is definitely rapidly turning into the latter.

“I think that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Clint says, climbing over Natasha as she laughs tiredly. “Jesus Christ, why do I even sleep with you? You’re terrible.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately true.” Clint palms James’ ass, pressing a kiss to his knee in counterpoint to his words.

James’ dick is drooling all over his abs. With all the excitement of teasing Natasha into incoherence, Clint had been able to push down his own arousal, ignore it, but it’s making itself known now, his dick throbbing at the sight of James’ flushed face, his straining thighs and painted toenails and tightly furled hole.

“Lube?”

James automatically reaches for the bedside table but comes up empty.

“Uh.” He twists, legs still in the air, and scrabbles in the drawer, then switches tack and shoves his hand under the pillows. A futile hope; it’s a terrible place to keep lube. “Um.”

As one, they both turn to Natasha.

“What?”

Clint raises a judgemental eyebrow. “‘This should be the sex room,’ you said. ‘It’s all set up,’ you said.”

“I never said it was _set up_ , Barton.”

“It was _implied_.”

“I made the bed,” Natasha points out. “I _bought_ the bed.”

“There’s no condoms either,” James cuts in, hand still deep under the pillows like sex supplies will just appear and no one will have to get out of bed. “Why the fuck aren’t there condoms, Natasha?”

“Why is this _my_ fault?”

“‘Sex room,’ she said.”

“Jesus Christ, fine!” Natasha rolls herself off the bed with all the grace of a gutted fish. “I’m going!”

She slides open the wardrobe and opens the drawer they’d earmarked for their now considerable sex toy collection, rummaging around. It’s not long before several foil packages bounce off Clint’s chest.

“And lube!” Clint calls, redundantly as she’s barely three feet away.

“Yes, Barton, I know.” She rummages some more. Her ass jiggles enticingly as she moves and Clint briefly regrets that neither he nor James spent any time with it today. It’s a great ass. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Did you not shove it in with the dildos?” James asks, and would you look at that; another great ass beautifully on display. Clint presses a kiss to his still-raised knee, feeling unbearably happy, and James shoots him a wide grin.

“Lube’s your responsibility.”

James’ expression morphs into mild confusion and he twists until he can see Natasha.

“Since when?” he asks.

“Since always,” comes Natasha's muffled reply as she delves deeper into the wardrobe. “I come pre-lubed.”

There’s a stunned sort of silence, then James lets out a delighted giggle.

“Okay,” Clint says slowly. “I take it back. _That_ is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

Natasha snorts with laughter, the odd rising tension dissipating almost as quickly as it came.

“True enough though,” she says, then, “Aha! Found some.” She emerges, brandishing a couple of lube sachets triumphantly. “But we’ve got to find the big one asap. Maybe it’s in the bathroom? Anyway.” She throws the lube sachets at Clint. “Your lube, good sir.”

She then unearths another silk robe, shrugging it on before returning to the bed. The lack of eye candy is unfortunate, but if she’s still too sensitive to join in he supposes it’s only fair.

Natasha reaches out a hand and catches Clint around the neck, reeling him in for a toe-curling kiss.

“I want a good show,” she says, between licks and bites to his lips. The taste of lipstick is almost entirely gone now but her lips are an addictive red regardless. “Okay?”

“As long as you don’t mind quick,” he quips back, smiling against her mouth. “You’re a hot piece of ass, Natasha Romanov.”

“Acceptable.” Natasha settles herself, rearranging the pillows at her back before crossing her ankles and gesturing imperiously. “You’re being left behind.”

Clint returns his attention to James to find he’s already ripped open a lube sachet and taken advantage of Clint’s momentary distraction to shove two fingers inside himself. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth a red, wet ‘o’ of pleasure. Clint lets out a low moan at the picture he makes before folding himself over James’ body and licking a wet stripe up his cock. James lets out a shocky moan so Clint does it again, sucking gently at the tip before lapping at the pre-come collecting on his abs.

“Fuck, Clint,” James pants. “I’m not gonna last if you keep that up.”

Clint shrugs, his shoulders bumping against James’ thighs.

“I’m not gonna last either way,” he says, before placing sucking kisses to James’ balls and taint, pubic hair tickling his nose. “Ready?”

James nods and Clint sits back on his heels, rolling a condom down his dick. The sensation is almost too much and he has to take a moment just to breathe before he can lube himself up with shaking hands.

James’ body is one long, hot slide, tight enough that Clint _almost_ worries that they didn’t prep enough. But James’ face is screwed up in pleasure and his dick is wet and heavy against his abs, so Clint decides to let that go; James likes the stretch anyway, the size and the weight and the overwhelming feeling of _fullness_. It makes him soft and pliant and even more beautiful than he already is. Clint can see it creeping across his face. He won’t get there now – the vibe is all wrong – but Clint makes sure to sink in as far as he can, to fill James up and _wait_ , his cock heavy and _there_ inside James for as long as he can stand. And when James grinds out, “ _Move_ ,” it’s a slow, maddening grind that Clint starts up, not a rough fucking, and James moans so loud Clint almost startles.

“ _Oh_ ,” Natasha's voice floats to Clint through the fog of arousal, “that’s nice, boys.”

Clint slides his mouth across James’, drinking down his moans like he’s starving. He can’t keep this up, this dirty grind. He can feel his orgasm building in his groin, the electricity in his nerves and the molten heat in his spine. And James is _so tight_.

Clint shifts, changes the angle slightly, pulls back and slams home.

James back bows and he keens, neck bared and legs tight around Clint’s waist as his hands scrabble at Clint’s shoulders and his heels dig in just above Clint’s ass.

“ _Fuck_.” Sometimes, if you get James there just right, he sounds like he’s seeing god. “Jesus, Clint.”

“Uh-huh.”

Clint’s not sure he can last much longer, but he’ll be damned if he comes first. He fumbles between them for James’ cock, slippery with arousal, while James digs blunt nails into his shoulders. A quick glance at Natasha reveals her idly tugging at one nipple, bottom lip caught between pearly canines, and that just pushes Clint higher. He grips James’ dick and twists, thrusts in and holds still while biting down on the meat of James’ shoulder, and James comes, shuddering in Clint’s arms, so tight around him that it only takes another handful of thrusts before Clint’s tumbling after him, sweaty and sated and content.

Clint collapses down onto James, smearing kisses to whatever stretch of skin is closest before he shifts, panting. James lets out a quiet punched-out groan as he slips free and Clint rolls onto his back, his shoulder brushing Natasha's thigh, to stare unfocussed at the ceiling.

That lampshade is fuck ugly, he thinks inanely. They should buy a new one.

“Eight point six from the Russian judge,” Natasha says once he and James have had time to catch their breath. “Lost points for impaired visuals. Gained points for James’ face.”

“Is that not visuals?” Clint asks, because he’s fairly sure James’ face counts as an _excellent_ visual.

Natasha shrugs, sinking a hand into his hair and tugging gently. “Different visuals.”

She’s probably just sad she couldn’t see how James opened so beautifully around Clint’s dick. He can’t fault her for that.

“Well, the American judge puts it at a solid nine point oh,” he says. “ _Great_ visuals.”

They dumped Harry Potter Houses a while back for… obvious reasons. Clint’s kinda sad, but not enough to complain. There are more important things in life than dumb sex jokes. The only problem is –

“The Lao People’s Democratic Republic submits a score of _nine point one_ ,” James says as he stretches his legs out. “Excellent visuals and top notch dick work.”

– James and Clint can’t _both_ be America, so James keeps picking these obscure fucking places Clint isn’t even sure are real. He once picked _Gondor_. Clint had to kick him.

“The Lao People’s Democratic Republic is biased,” Natasha says with a snort.

“The Lao People’s Democratic Republic,” James says with satisfaction, “just got fucked and doesn’t care what you think.”

“Please stop saying Lao People’s Democratic Republic,” Clint complains as he peels off the condom. “Is that even a real place? I swear you keep making these places up.”

The thing is though, most of the time he’s _not_. He’s been São Tomé and Príncipe, ‘the Mayor of Flin Flon, Manitoba’, El Salvador, Irian Jaya, the Federated States of Micronesia, Réunion and, worst of all, ‘the delegation from Intercourse and Reamstown, Pennsylvania,’ all of which turned out to be _real fucking places_. Clint’s slightly worried James sits up at night with an atlas finding them all. He’s slightly _more_ worried that _Steve sometimes helps_.

Although if he gets fucked hard enough, all James manages are the words, “A plus,” and a goofy smile, which Clint finds _painfully_ endearing. Sure, the scoring metric is wrong, but he tries and that’s what counts.

Clint ties off the condom and looks around for a trashcan, only to find that there isn’t one.

“You suck at this,” he informs Natasha flatly.

“What now?”

Clint dangles the condom in front of Natasha's face, making her grimace. “Okay, fair. Here.” She grabs what’s left of Clint’s destroyed t-shirt, wrapping the condom in the fabric and dropping it on the bedside table.

“Wait, hold on, can I have that?” James hold out his hand and, with a highly sceptical expression on her face, Natasha passes the bundle of t-shirt-and-condom to James, who uses it to wipe off his stomach before carefully rolling it up and dumping it over the side of the bed.

“If you get come stains on this carpet, I’ll kill you,” Natasha says, matter of fact.

“Mm, no you won’t.” James rolls over to plaster himself to Clint’s side, right arm slung low across Clint’s stomach.

“No, get off me.” Clint pushes at James with a hand on his face. “I need a shower.”

“And I need food,” Natasha adds, climbing off the bed on unsteady legs.

“And _I_ need a nap,” James grouses.

“Have a shower with me instead,” Clint says. “I’ll eat you out.”

James gives him a considering look. “Are we christening the bathroom too?”

“We have a whole, glorious weekend ahead of us,” Clint says, gesturing expansively with one hand like he’s in a play. “We can christen the _whole apartment_.”

He means it a joke, mostly, but by the looks on Natasha's and James’ faces, it hasn’t been taken as one.

“We’re going to christen the whole apartment, aren’t we?”

Clint growing grin is met by two more.

“Yeah, Barton,” Natasha says, “I think we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wondering: [Natasha's bodysuit](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EB2b5QoXkAEfzfk?format=jpg&name=medium), just without the garters/stockings (though Natasha definitely has those too).


End file.
